Reprisal
by RhineGold
Summary: This couldn't be happening. He was the most powerful man in all of Storybrooke. Things like this did not happen in Storybrooke. They did not happen to him. Warning for Rape/Non-Con, disability-related violence


**Reprisal**

_Written for the following prompt on the Once Upon a Time Kink Meme: _

_"I desperately want a story where Mr. Gold gets more than he bargained for._

_I've seen a lot of things calling for dub-con or non-con from him, but I'd love to see some towards him. Could be any character, male or female, crossover or no._

_I want someone breaking in, cornering him, kicking his cane away, and just having their way with him while he decisively does not want._

_After all, all magic comes with a price, and he's been quite advantaged by it..."_

_Cross-posted at A03._

A storm raged through Storybrooke, lashing tree branches against windows, sending leaves and scraps swirling through the streets. Power had been flickering on and off all evening, causing a frustrated Mr. Gold to resort to lighting candles to finish up his paperwork.

Sorting through the day's receipts, he placed them in a manila folder labeled with the date before turning his attentions to the paperwork he intended Regina to sign. She had spent days reading over the documents and he was certain she would spend at least an hour with the printed copy, looking for any hidden loopholes or clauses. It stung, really. He was a man of his word, after all; one who would never try to change the terms of an agreement after the fact. He chalked it up to the Mayor's suspicious nature.

In the shop proper, a sudden bang made him sit sharply upright in his seat. The bell above the door jangled discordantly and the sound of howling wind grew louder. Sighing, he pushed his chair free of the desk, grabbing for his cane. Opening the door separating the two rooms, he realized the shop door had come open, banging now back and forth in the draft. The bell continued to ring faintly, but to his relief, he saw the rain was blowing sideways and not on his floor.

Crossing the space with another low sigh, he wrestled the door one-handed until he could push it shut. The room suddenly plunged into darkness. He realized the door behind him had closed too, cutting off the dim light of the candle inside. The rain beating on the roof overhead muffled his ears but years of instinct alerted him that something was off. He briefly closed his eyes, adjusting to the low light before taking a step forward on his good leg.

He froze in place, off-balanced and startled when arms suddenly encircled him from behind. One wrapped around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides, while a hand closed over his mouth, muffling the sound of surprise he couldn't contain.

"Don't move a muscle." A man's voice hissed in his ear. He realized the man was wet, probably from the rain. He could feel water slide off the leather of the man's jacket sleeve, making him shiver as it touched the exposed skin of his throat. He did not recognize the voice, a fact that seemed nigh impossible - he knew everyone in Storybrooke, just as everyone knew him.

Mr. Gold groaned as he finally lost his balance, falling against the man more completely. His cane thudded uselessly against their legs, but he refused to let it go. The hand over his mouth tilted his head up sharply in response. He inhaled quickly, the rise and fall of his chest betraying the slow curl of fear. Who was this? What did he want?

"I'm going to let go of you. Don't talk, and don't turn around."

True to his word, the arms released him, and he stumbled forward a few pained steps before managing to get his cane under himself again. He leaned both hands against it, trying to get his bearings, hair in his face. He heard the man unzip his jacket, loud in the room even over the sound of the rain.

"You're making a mistake," He said finally. "You don't want to rob me; I'm just a simple pawnbro-" His words ended in a yelp as his legs were kicked out from under him, sending him tumbling to his elbows and knees on the rough wooden floorboards.

A hand fisted in his hair, pulling his head back at a painful angle. He could see nothing but the shape of a man looming just outside of his vision, taller, broader. "I told you not to talk."

"What do you want?" He asked breathlessly. Gold cried out, closing his eyes in pain as the man's foot came down on the back of his right leg. His muscles spasmed, making him jerk and drop from his elbows to his hands. This left his back arched at an unnatural angle as the man held his grip in his hair.

He heard his cane rattle across the floorboards, lost somewhere in the darkness of the shop, and then the man was on top of him.

He pinned him in place easily, using his upper body to hold him down flat while his knee thrust ruthlessly between his legs, forcing them apart. Gold's eyes widened, a thousand questions dying on his lips in syllabic gasps as thoughts flew through his mind. This position was...

"What are you doing?" He cried finally, only to break off in a choked cry as the man used the hand in his hair to slam his head down against the floor. His vision dimmed and he caught a ragged breath.

"No more talking." He said again, shaking him forcefully, before releasing his hair.

Gold gasped for breath, trying to salvage his addled wits. He started when he felt hands delving under his shirt, untucking it from his pants. He'd left his jacket in the other room, along with his cell phone and keys, anything that might prove useful.

The hands on his skin were cold and calloused, running over his flesh as though searching for something. This couldn't be happening. He was the most powerful man in all of Storybrooke. Things like this did not happen in Storybrooke. They did not happen to him.

When fingers hooked around the buckle of his belt, he surged forward on his elbows, trying to crawl away. He managed to bring his good leg up underneath him, but this meant trying to put his weight on his right leg to stand. He staggered, fell, and crawled forward, only to be caught again by a grip on his ankle.

The man snarled, dropping over him like dead weight, forcing the air out of his lungs. Gold screamed as the man twisted a knee sharply into the damaged muscle of his leg, the pain whiting out his vision for a moment.

When he came to his senses, the man had ripped his belt free of his waist, tearing belt loops in the process. Twisting his arms up behind him, the man bound them together with the thin leather of his own belt. Gold struggled, trying to free himself before he could tie the knot, but it was no use. The man was larger and stronger. He could taste blood in his mouth and he spit uselessly trying to clear it.

Hands returned to his hips, palming over the sides of his trousers, thumbs digging into his hipbones cruelly. He gasped and tried to crawl forward, but there was nowhere to go. The man chuckled breathlessly, pulling down on the soft, rich fabric, baring him to the chill air.

"Now behave yourself and I'll take my time," The man said softly, voice dark with something too bitter to be angry. He realized with a start that this man _hated _him.

He whimpered when the man's hand slid over his skin, down his back and lower, questing for something he refused to even consider. The small sound he made drew out longer when fingers prised at him, opening him and laying him raw. "No…" He breathed, twisting his hips to evade the stinging pain. The man's fingers felt slick, felt wet, but he could not accept this, could not endure this, could not rationalize this.

Shaking his head in an attempt to throw his hair out of his eyes, Gold looked behind him as best as he was able. The man remained a dim blur, mysterious and unidentifiable. "Please don't do this…" He said softly, voice barely audible above the rain. He cringed when the man raised his arm threateningly. "Wait, just… don't…!"

The arm stopped, just above his head, suddenly softening until fingers combed almost gently through his hair.

"Mighty Mr. Gold," The man whispered. "The scourge of Storybrooke. Ruling from your pretty little castle of stolen treasures, like a dragon guarding its lair…"

"No, I… That's not…" His face felt raw and hot, his arms ached as he struggled against the belt binding him. The man's fingers were obscene and too present. He had never even considered this. It unmade him, unbound him, even as he was bound. This was not acceptable, not bearable, not possible.

The hand in his hair remained deceptively gentle, soothing his feverish brow as the fingers finally withdrew. He gasped out a shuddering breath. "You've made your point. Please, just let's discuss this like civilized…"

The hand clenched abruptly, warning him into silence with the threat of more violence. "Mighty Mr. Gold…" The man crooned, hunkering down closer, so he could feel the warmth of his breath on his throat. "Anything and everything you want, and it comes to you like _magic_…"

His eyes widened even further and he struggled then, to turn over, to see his face. The man bore down, weight crushing him to the floor, hands bruising on his hips. "Well, now. All magic comes with a price…"

Mr. Gold screamed, a raw, desperate sound, as the man pressed inside. It hurt like fire, raw and endless. He felt flesh and thoughts twist, pull, and slide, and his cheek scraped the floor as he jack-knifed away from that pain, trying to escape at any cost.

The man laughed then, a rich, throaty sound. "But you knew that already… didn't you…?"

Then there was no more talking, only slick, sliding flesh and shallow, desperate breaths. Blood sloughed across the floor from Gold's split lip, and he tried to focus on that feeling, of blood and saliva and anything but what was happening so far away yet so deep inside.

Heavy grunts joined the soft keening sounds he couldn't keep inside as the man quickened his pace. With a snarl, the man sank down onto him, deeper than before. He felt his hands go numb as the belt cut into his skin. The sound the man's climax tore from this throat was raw and desperate, a wordless shout of misery, a sound he hadn't made in years.

He lay there, panting, beneath the other man, feeling his consciousness greying around the edges. His breath came in tiny half-sobs. His entire body felt bruised and scraped. Finally, after an eternity, the man withdrew, one hand curving over his thigh, stroking his skin with perverse tenderness.

When he felt the man's hands reach for the belt, he gasped out raggedly, "…Why?"

"You know why." The man said, the fingers stroking over his hair again, clutching at the back of his neck briefly before withdrawing.

His arms, free of the belt, tumbled bonelessly beside him as circulation finally began to return. His fractured thoughts swirled like a spinning wheel, trying to make some sense of what had just happened. "No… I don't know…" He whispered, realizing his lashes were wet.

The man stood easily, zipping up his jacket. The sound was too loud in the quiet of the room, making Gold flinch despite himself. The man did not respond until he stood before the door. "…Then you will."

The bell jangled with discordant cheerfulness as the door closed, sealing the battered man in darkness once more. Outside the wind howled like a thing possessed as the storm beat down across the town.

_Notes:_

_Originally, this story was titled "Comeuppance". After discussing the story and the title with a friend of mine, I decided to change it._

_The word comeuppance means to get something that you deserve. The prompt in question asked for Mr. Gold to be the one getting hurt, rather than hurting others, as is common for his character. However, my intention with writing this is to show that, even though Mr. Gold has done terrible things, what happens in this story is a disproportionate retribution. The title was meant to be ironic in the sense that this is not comeuppance - this is something horrible._

_However, discussing it, I realized my intention is not very clear, so I'm changing the name to try and reflect what I was going for. Sorry for any confusion this might cause._

_In international law, reprisal refers to an act of force, often disproportionate, in response to a wrongdoing or perceived wrongdoing. A response to wrongdoing that falls into acceptable perimeters is a retorsion. This story is not about retorsion. No matter what poor Mr. Gold may have done to this man, this is not an acceptable response._


End file.
